Atlas

I don’t mind the work.
It keeps me in shape,
It’s something to do,
And someone has to do it after all.
But sometimes when I hear
All those anxious footsteps,
Millions of them, like hail,
And all the gripes and complaints,
Like the drone of locusts in my ears,
Constant, eerie, and endless,
And when my shoulders ache
With unflinching responsibility
To a weight that grows greater every year,
I wonder if, when they called me “strongest”,
They really meant “sucker”,
And I look into the abyss
And contemplate my own release.